


Reason to Fight

by redd093



Category: No Fandom
Genre: Fiction, Gen, General fiction, Literature, Short Stories, prose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-14
Updated: 2014-04-14
Packaged: 2018-01-19 09:36:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1464529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redd093/pseuds/redd093
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>A story about a boxer remembering his life during a match</p>
    </blockquote>





	Reason to Fight

**Author's Note:**

> A story about a boxer remembering his life during a match

Have you ever heard the Japanese proverb: "Fall down seven times, get up eight"? I have. My father taught it to me. And as I lay here, facedown on the boxing ring mat, it bubbles up into my mind. Get back on the horse. Never back down. Eyes on the prize. It's all the same. Stupid quotes, coined by people who were never remembered, that don't mean anything. That's not what keeps me going. My old man? That's not it either. Hell, I don't even care if I get the prize money. So what am I fighting for? 

I get up. I can feel blood in my mouth. I want to spit it out, but why show weakness? Fake the other guy out. Make him think that the last hit wasn't anything worth writing home about. It works. He's a bit scared. We make it to the fifth round. Then the sixth. He won't go down. But neither will I. We're both too bullheaded to give up. So that leaves us with only one option: Don't give the other guy a choice. Make him go down, and make him stay down. 

As a kid, I fought a lot. Not with words. With fists. It was always over stupid stuff, too. Sports, food, girls, clothes, a wrong word, a wrong look. Needless to say, I didn't have many friends. It was fine. Friends came and went. But what stayed with you was the stories. It was an amazing feel. You knocked down the toughest kid in school, and suddenly you were a legend. People knew that you didn't take any shit, so they didn't mess with you. I got a small following. It was great. People feared me and respected me. And as long as you knew how not to piss me off, I was a down right decent guy. The problem was, a lot of things pissed me off.

We make it to the tenth round. We're both exhausted. It's no wonder, we've both been in this ring for what seems like ages. But there's one noticeable difference between the two of us, and the other guy notices it: Every round, the other guy gets up slower and slower, with more and more hesitation, whereas I always get up and grin, ready for another round. The bell rings. I come in swinging. The other guy teeters backwards. He's too tired to carry on. I've got him now. It feels really good to finally feel my glove connect with his face, to see his mouth guard fly out of his mouth and into the stands. He goes down. He stays down. 

I didn't go to college. I didn't even graduate high school. Too many fights. Too many detentions. Finally, I got old enough for the cops to be able to arrest me. That didn't end well. My fight with the cops got recorded. Was on the seven o'clock news. Made me especially famous. Made my legend spread. It felt wonderful. After a month or so, I made a new reputation in jail. I was still young. And the stories that they were telling about me felt amazing. Needless to say, I wanted more. I wanted as much as I could get.

I go to return to my corner. I won. But I haven't. The other guy stands up. Slightly annoyed, I charge at him. Somehow, he's too quick. He gets me in my stomach. I'm winded. He gets me in the face. I put up my guard, too late. His fists are flying. I can't catch a break. I go to retaliate, he swivels and gets my side. I can't touch him. I'm getting mad. I aim for his head. His stomach. His sides. I don't know how he's doing it, but he's dancing around me like I'm nothing. Where is he getting his second wind from? The bell rings. Back to our corners. But as I sit down, I see his second wind. The other coach squirts some green shit into the other guy's water. I grin wide. This means I can let loose.

When I finally got out of jail, there was a guy waiting for me. His name was Dick, he gave me his card and everything. He was a boxing coach. He is my boxing coach. He trained me. He fed me. All I had to do was fight. And the more I fought, the more my legend was brought back to life. It felt amazing. Even though I hadn't really gone away in jail, it felt like I was home again. People feared me. People respected me. Real people. I kept fighting. I kept winning. My legend kept growing. It was great. Then finally, I got a challenge from a champ. I usually didn't fight pros. The first one I fought accused me of cheating after I pummeled his sorry ass. I hated the whining. I didn't want to hear any more of it. So I told my coach: "If I'm gonna keep fighting, then I don't care who it is, but it's not gonna be a professional fight. Just a simple brawl where drunk men can bet on how quickly I take down my next victim." But somehow, my coach managed to convince me to try again. 

The bell rings. Round twelve. The other guy comes in swinging, but I don't waste any time. His punches are faster, but I dodge them, wait till he's tired out, and rush him. This guy's got nothing on those skin heads I met in jail. I come in close and plow my glove into his stomach. He throws up on the mat. So much for that green shit his coach gave him. He stands back up and tries to rush me, stepping in his vomit. I hit his stomach a second time. He falls to his knee. I stand over him and watch him. He gets back up again. Seems like he's heard that old Japanese proverb, too. I hit his face. He falls down. This is getting sad. The ref knows it. The bell rings again. I'm ending this next round. Before I can even turn around, though, he tries to kick my legs out from under me. I jump on him and work on his face. He can't even block. I get pulled off of him and yelled at. I tell the ref before he goes making any calls, he should check the other guy's water bottle. I walk away and spit blood onto the mat. And I realize why I fight. No one will remember your face. No one will remember your name. Coin a catchy inspirational phrase? Still, no one cares. But there's always one thing that lives on in people's hearts and never dies. And as long as that exists, your name and face live on as well. Thanks to your legend.


End file.
